Sorrow in the Shire
by cosmo-queen
Summary: Frodo's thoughts on losing the simple life of the Shire he loved.


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DISCLAIMER: Everything and anything Lord of the Rings related belongs to the biggest genius that ever lived, J.R.R Tolkien. Not me. 

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SORROW IN THE SHIRE

Spring has arrived in the Shire and the gift of life surrounds me. The little children are captivated by the blooming flowers, and delight in observing a pale bud blossom into a glistening plant with colourful petals. But it is not only children who enjoy nature's rebirth. I arise many mornings to see my dear Sam already awake, plodding through his prized garden, which he treasures only behind his beloved family. I do not disturb him, as he tends to his plants with gentle care, enraptured and lost in a blissful world of his own.

However, I do not feel the same joy at the coming of Spring as Sam does, and it grieves me. No matter how warm the bright sunshine may be, I always seem to be overcome with cold. Back in my childhood, as soon as the winds of Winter were chased away, I would spend a night lying under the stars, while the sparkling waters of the Brandywine trickled nearby and eventually lulled me to sleep. In the first light of the morning, the mixed song of early bird and Hobbit would stir awake my heart. Now, wandering past the river-side gives me sharp chills, and I only walk that way when need warrants.

In fact, I do not venture out of Bag-End very often. While the afternoon melts away with the sound of carefree children's voices on the air, I prefer to stay inside my study, writing or reading over Bilbo's old books of lore. In my youth, I opted for the freedom of a sunny afternoon rather than spending time indoors poring over the countless pages of these thick books. But now, an ideal afternoon fades away in the pages of ancient tales. Now and then, I spend a morning playing with Elanor, or an afternoon talking to Rosie. 

In the evening though, when the glare of the Sun has faded over the hills and the first stars have appeared in the East, I find time to wander the fields of Hobbiton so to appreciate the peace and still of Night, when all lies down to sleep. Sometimes I walk alone, aware of all that stirs, other times with Sam. On the occasions that Merry and Pippin visit, the four of us sit down and reflect on the past in solemn voices, discussing matters we have not shared with even the closest of family members. Other times, when the crickets are particularly chirpy, we talk about the future, as small clouds of Merry and Pippin's pipe-weed float above our heads. I tend to listen in silence during those conversations, happy that my dearest friends have their plans and dreams, but all too aware that I have none to share. They understand though, and do not press the matter.

Nevertheless, I return home ere the deep darkness and cold chill of the Night really settle in, sometimes leaving them to continue on their conversations without me. Other times I leave when too long an uncomfortable silence has resulted from a matter sensitive to me. I do not wish to burden my friends more than I already have, especially now that they are free from the evils of the world.

On returning home, I make myself a cup of tea and stare into the darkness for as long as I can bear it. I refuse to be tormented by shadows anymore. It does not mean, however, that they do not haunt me in my dreams. Some nights, I fall asleep quickly, weary and feeling somewhat stretched, and my dreams are pleasant mosaics of memories long forgotten. On waking, these dreams often disappear and are lost. Other nights, there are Black Riders chasing me, except they are not faceless but have an orange eye wreathed in flame. Then, I wake up suddenly, and for a long while, nothing makes sense and I am paralysed. However, my dreams are funny things, and do not haunt me as much as I thought they would.

I sleep longer now. Before, I used to wake early enough to watch the sky lighten and shine with the radiance of a new day. Now, though I do not waste away the entire morning lying in bed, I wake at least three hours later than I usually did. Perhaps it has something to do with the intense glow of the Sun when it first appears. I do not like this gleam very much, for if I glance at it, I can see a faint outline of that accursed Ring, and it hurts my eyes, and stays with me for a long time. Yet the Sun is not the only reminder of the influence the Ring still has over me.

In the voices of innocent birds and beasts, I can hear the tortured cries of evil creatures that were mutilated in the darkness to become figures of innocence no more, but instead, to strike fear in the hearts of all who beheld them. In an injured child's cry and plea for their parents, I can sense sorrow, pain, hurt, agony; sometimes to the point of actually feeling it, particularly in my wound from Weathertop. In the great trunks of tall trees, I can see looming towers and lurking shadows, which, in truth, are not really there. And even as the fresh flowers of Spring bloom in their myriad of pinks and golds and violets, all the colours that make up the beauty of the world, and especially of Spring, seem pale and forever darkened. 

Even on the clearest of days, when one would think the Brandywine River has been painted in the sky, it seems to me that a storm approaches. When it does rain, and the earth and trees are rejuvenated, and the rivers replenished, I can smell the thirst of dry, reeking lands, lying desolate far away. And even though the flowers are watered, and release exquisite scents in appreciation, I cannot smell their beautiful aromas unless they are borne away on some distant wind. Even then, I cannot appreciate it well. As their petals glisten with rain-drops, I can only sigh sadly, thinking how the Sun will burn them when summer arrives, and they will be nothing but a withered memory.

All I see reminds me of sorrow, all I hear reminds me of death and all I smell has a pungent taste to it. My heart grows all the more heavy, and even in Spring, I cannot get rid of the weariness that plagues me, and haunts me even in sleep. For I, unlike these new flowers and birds, cannot be reborn, to explore the world carefree and in joyous awe. I cannot experience the simple life of the Shire without remembering shadows of the past. I can never again fully appreciate the beauty of the world around me.

For life is no longer simple and innocent. After all the battles I have fought, whether they be physical or emotional, alone or with others; after all the burdens I have carried and continue to do so; after all the troubles I have placed upon my friends, who still stand by me though I do not deserve them; after all the pain and sorrow of experiencing a world which was too big for me in the first place, life can never go back to the way it was. And it is in Spring, above all the other seasons of the world, that I realise how much I have lost. That is why, amongst the flowers and fields and rivers of life, a great sorrow lingers over the Shire.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was the first thing I wrote once I arrived in the country a couple of days ago. That trip is now over, but it did wonders for my creativity. Ahh, I love the country! Anyway. In the small town I was visiting, I can see how simple life must have been in the Shire. In a bit of a sad mood myself, I wrote this piece, imagining how Frodo must have felt losing somewhat the simple life of the Shire he loved. Please review. Greatly appreciated :)

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